


Caged in purpose, caged in night

by Innsmouth, Skarita



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Illustrated, Science shenanigans, ridiculous aus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Innsmouth/pseuds/Innsmouth, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skarita/pseuds/Skarita
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One is a fledgling legislacerator, bound by duty and principle. The other is a scientist and mother, bearing the burden of responsibility for that which preys on the Imperial City.</p><p>They aren't prepared for the job, but they'll finish it anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caged in purpose, caged in night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urbanAnchorite (t_ZM)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_ZM/gifts).



The night is cold, and the breath that wisps from your mouth curls dragonlike around your head in the frosty air. In the dimness of the derelict courtblock, Redglare is only a faint suggestion at your shoulder. The legislacerator is as silent and alert as a Doberman, forever an enigma behind red-tinted lenses. Her presence is barely a small comfort; she isn't here to watch your back.

She's here to make sure you don't run.

  
  
  
_(They came for you the night of the accident as your people were still picking through broken glass for answers: two securiterrorizers, bulky as orcs from one of Rose’s fantasy novels. The situation was absolutely fucking ludicrous, and it was all you could do not to giggle hysterically at the sheer absurdity of it all as they graciously shepherded you into the backseat of their cruiser and pulled sedately out of the driveway of your rented apartment.)_

  
  
  
You check your rifle for the umpteenth time; clip loaded, sights aligned, safety off. It's as much for your nerves as anything else. You have no recourse in the dark.  
The weapon is not your own, but standard military issue. They didn't trust you with anything of yours. Redglare brought nothing but the cane that's currently tap-tap-tapping away on the floor like the beak of Poe's raven. She said she doesn't require anything else.   
  
  


_(The interrogator was a blueblood, small for his caste and sporting thick glasses. Not daunting at all, not intimidating, not even when he carefully laid all of his tools on the table. You had been braced for anything, ready to endure, a regular lion-hearted girl._

_He said "I hear you have a daughter," and you had broken in a moment._   
  
_Always secret, always secure. That was the mantra in your labs, for despite an embassy or two your government has no jurisdiction on Alternia. Troll executions are notoriously brutal, more so for war criminals and traitors to the regime. If you were caught, there would be no mercy waiting for you. Sure, there would be a letter expressing official condolences sent to one Jane Crocker, and they’d find Rose somewhere stable to grow up, but you would still die slow and nasty. If any whisper of your project made its way to Imperial ears, your life was forfeit._   
  
_You told him everything.)_   
  
  


You fiddle with the sights yet again, and suddenly you’re tripping over wood as Redglare’s cane halts its progress immediately in front of your feet.  A quiet “Pay attention,” is your only warning, if a belated one.

And here you are, once more clawing your way up towards legitimacy in the eyes of the esteemed Neophyte. As if the last few days weren’t enough. “I was. Excuse me for wanting to be able to hit the fucking thing.” Never mind that the darkness winds around you like a shroud.  
  
“At the range we’ll be engaging the target, extreme accuracy won’t be an issue. You’re nervous, Lalonde. If I had a functional sniffnode, I’d be able to smell it.”  
  
Scope calibrated or close enough, you shrug as nonchalantly as you can manage. “I like to think of it as warranted caution, given that I know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

“I’ll concede that point to your superior human knowledge,” says Redglare, before lapsing once more into silence.

The legislacerator’s seeming lack of concern bothers you on some deep and visceral level; there has to be something at least a little wrong with someone who brings a stick to a gunfight. You’re compensating for her arrogance, and all you can do is hope that it doesn’t bring about your incredibly messy end. Playing Ellen Ripley in the middle of the night is not how you want to kick the bucket, especially since the entire situation is at least partially your fault.

  
  
  
 _(They gave you one chance. One chance to fix things, one chance to sweep everything under the rug, one chance to save yourself. They gave you a gun and a watchdog and a mission, but the desperation is all your own. You have no margin of error; the Imperial liaison made that perfectly clear during your debriefing. “Get rid of it,” he said. “Get rid of it, or your spawn will never know what happened to you.” You agreed. You had no choice.)_  
  
  
  
  
You tug the collar of your lab coat higher against the chill; your escort doesn’t mind the temperature.  Redglare seems unaffected by anything except the siren song of justice. Given that justice is an extremely flexible concept in Alternian society, you find this more than a little baffling. How can one be so devoted to something warped into near-unrecognizability and bent until it screams? You’re reasonably sure that requires either a mind hardened into a veritable bastion of principle or one willing to justify almost anything. Either one of those possibilities is pretty goddamn dangerous in its own way. Consequently, you don’t trust Redglare farther than you could heave her bony body.

The living quarters beckon ahead through the doorway. Your search thus far has been methodical, room by room and floor by floor. Suddenly a red-gloved hand is blocking your path, and you nearly blunder into it before you stop yourself.  
  
Redglare’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Do you hear that?”  
  
“Hear _what?_ ”  
  
“Exactly. It isn’t here.”  
  
You give the general vicinity of where you can sort of see her silhouette a very dubious look. “Just because you can’t hear it doesn’t mean that it’s not there. It’s an ambush predator, Neophyte. It _waits.”_

Redglare huffs, a cloud of vapor emerging from the darkness. “You’re wasting time.”  
  
“ _Au contraire_. We have all the time in the world.”  
  
She drops her hand to her side, and the two of you continue your slow infiltration of the building.

  
  
  
_(The call came in when you were sitting in Redglare’s cramped, Spartan office attempting to plot out likely locations for your target to take refuge. A threshecutioner squad had encountered it on the border of the Law District, and the surviving surgeonnihilator attached to the unit reported that it retreated into a courtblock slated for demolition. Redglare looked at you over the top of her glasses and told you that you were leaving immediately. Fifteen minutes brought you to the entrance of the abandoned courtblock and the barrels of a dozen securiterrorizer pistols._

_When you arrived, they locked you in.)_

  
  
  
Investigation proves your escort right; your target is not in here, and probably never was. The living quarters are on the top floor, squirreled away behind a warren of offices. Better that you should search the lower levels, where darkness sinks like fog into every crevice. As you pass back the way you came, the wind whistles through a broken window to rustle long-unfinished paperwork atop the desks. A thousand cases with a thousand victims and a thousand perpetrators, all never to see the inside of a courtroom. Depressing, if you think about it too hard. You choose not to.  
The stairs creak gently beneath your boots as you descend, groaning in protest under two-hundred-fifty-plus pounds of troll and human. One step, two steps, three steps, ground floor.  
  
  
 There is a soft whickering noise from off to one side, and Redglare yanks you beneath the staircase. Up close she smells of leather and faint fear-sweat, and you focus on that as something huge slithers through the dark mere feet away. Claws click on the floorboards, reminding you that each is a razor edge waiting to rend you into so many gobbets of meat.  For something so massive, it’s unnervingly quiet. The occasional wet, heavy breath is your only warning. If not for Redglare’s keen hearing, it would’ve caught you in the open, and that would have been the end. If it weren’t blind, you’d be dead already.  
  
  
It pauses, so close that you could reach over and touch it. With every breath it takes, you can hear the phlegmy, rattling undertones; the lungs don’t work quite right, they never have.  
  
You know it can smell your fear.  
After all, you designed it that way.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
You press yourself against Redglare, throwing personal space out the window in the face of potential messy death. She’s holding her breath, as are you; if you breathe it will hear you, and if it hears you then you’re toast. You can’t fight it here, not now. It has the advantage here in this cramped alcove beneath the stairs, able to mangle you both at a moment’s notice. Your fingers curl uselessly against Redglare’s sternum, and she eases one arm over the small of your back. The two of you stand there entwined in a ridiculous parody of intimacy, waiting for the end.

  
Another bubbling, sighing breath comes from around the corner, and then comes the faint _thssss_ of a tail dragging across the floor. Spots dance in your vision; you wonder briefly if troll brains misfire in the same way when running low on oxygen. Not that you’ll ever find out, of course. That little nugget of information means absolutely fuck-all right now.  
  
  
Your head is light. Redglare is solid against you, leather and bone and a rapid heartbeat.  
  
  
Claws click again, and the beast moves on into the dark.

  
You wait as long as you possibly can before letting yourself inhale, shaky and forcibly quiet.  
  
  
  
( _Component parts welded into a patchwork, misshapen whole; a bastardization of miraculous biology. You didn’t craft it to be beautiful, you didn’t craft it to be elegant; you made it efficient instead. Your employers ordered a weapon, and that’s what they got. A mammal here, a reptile there, bone to cartilage to ropy muscle wrapped in hide. The project was numbered, not codenamed; there was no reason to give it a concrete identity. A blunt instrument has no need for a name. But when you fail to properly secure your weaponry, it can get into the wrong hands. Or talons, in this case. You were negligent in your vigilance, and you paid the price when it escaped.)_  
  
  
  
  
Redglare discreetly removes her arm from your waist, but not before you whisper “Thank you.”  
  
Her response is distinctly surprised. “For what?”  
  
“For not letting me become Barney the Purple Dinosaur’s latest chew toy. I owe you for that.”  
  
She simply shrugs. “I have no intention of facing your abomination alone. Preventing you from wandering into its toothy maw was a matter of tactical superiority.”  
  
“Come off it, _Neophyte._ You’re just as scared as I am, but at least I can admit this situation has us twenty different kinds of fucked.” You hiss that last sentence comes just a little too fast, and internally you wince; you _are_ scared, damn it. Not just for you, but for the gargantuan political clusterfuck that will blossom into being if you fuck this up. In the event that you die here without neutralizing your biggest mistake, you can probably say hello to a war between Earth and the Alternian Empire, and it’ll be all your fault.  
  
Above all, you are terrified for Rose, even if you’ll never say it aloud.  
A mother will do whatever is best for her children, even if it means her end.  
  
  
Redglare seizes you by the chin and pulls you close; the gesture is unexpected, and you wind up close enough that you could kiss her if you wanted to. Her fingers are like a vise on your jawline. The distance between you is negligible; even in the dark, you can almost make out the teal of her eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
                                                                  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“My personal feelings,” she says, soft but steely calm, “have no bearing on my ability to do my job.” She lets you go, and you resist the impulse to reach up and rub your jaw. “As a scientist, you should be aware of that.”  
  
You don’t move away. “I’m well aware, but that doesn’t mean I can’t acknowledge it.”  
  
After a moment, something loosens in Redglare’s bearing. “If I don’t acknowledge it, I can attempt to ignore it. This—“ she hesitates before continuing. “I am twelve sweeps old, and only beginning my career with the Cruelest Bar. This is more than I’ve ever had to deal with. I hunt the guilty, not the bastard children of mad science.”

You feel a sting of guilt for assuming that her severity had come with the weight of age. The Empire obviously had its qualms about easing your burdens, so they placed some on her shoulders instead. Heavy-handed distribution is how they tend to operate, after all. You gently lay a hand on her shoulder. “I’m thirty-five and a single mother, and Jesus _Christ_ am I too old for this shit. But here we are.”  
  
“But here we are,” echoes Redglare, “and we have a target to terminate.”  
  
“You bet we do, but we need to find the goddamn thing first. Now, if I were a demented Frankenstein’s monster, where would I hide?”  
  
Your escort (partner?) tilts her head to the side. “Thus far, it seems to prefer dark, secluded places.” She pauses, considering. “Like a boiler room, perhaps.”  
  
“Then I suppose we know where we’re headed next. Good going, Troll Javert.”  
  
“Troll what?”  
  
“Nothing.” You remove your hand and gesture out towards the corridor ahead. “Shall we?”  
  
Redglare nods, reaching down to grasp the middle of her cane. “Let’s. But give me a moment first.”  
  
You raise an eyebrow, despite there really being no point in doing so. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Arming myself properly.” She pulls the wood apart to reveal a long blade. Apparently she isn’t _completely_ outclassed in terms of armament, after all. A knife is marginally better than a stick; maybe she can poke the thing to death while you attempt to aim without any visibility. God, you are so fucked.  
You wait patiently while she tucks the scabbard into her belt and steps out from beneath the staircase; after a few tense moments, she beckons you over. “It’s clear.”  
You check the safety on your rifle a final time and join her in the corridor.  
  
  
  
 _(Rose asked you what you did for a living once. You told her that you told other people how to make things. She gave you an extremely skeptical look and told you that there was no need to simplify it for her, as her mental faculties were entirely up to the task of comprehending it. You hemmed and hawed for a minute, but even at seven Rose was always too clever and persistent for her own good, and eventually you said that you were a geneticist supervising the creation of various pseudosentient organisms from animal components._  
  
 _Rose had mulled it over for a moment. “Like Doctor Moreau?”_

_There was an uncomfortable twist in your stomach at her question. “Yes, honey. Like Doctor Moreau.”_

_She never broached the subject again.)_

  
  
  
The corridor stretches on before you, a gaping throat in grey and black. Your footsteps echo with Redglare’s in disjointed concert, making too much noise for you to be comfortable with. At this rate, it’ll hear you a mile away. For one fleeting moment, you wish you’d used something dull like a tiger as the base instead of the lizardlike thing that the reconnaissance squad had brought you. Damn your lack of foresight.  
You glance over at Redglare, only to find her staring back. “Something on my face?”  
  
“You’re not supposed to survive this,” she says. “Neither of us are.”  
  
“We were sent in by ourselves, Neophyte. Of course we weren’t meant to live through whatever happens. I can recognize a suicide mission when I see it, thanks.” You shrug, acting more resigned than you really are. “I’m just wondering what you did to deserve it.”  
  
Redglare clears her throat, suddenly stiff. “My superiors questioned the necessity of some of our more minor laws, and in turn I questioned the necessity of my superiors.”  
  
“Jesus Christ. They threw you in here with me for _that_?”  
  
“You’re a liability,” says Redglare softly, “and apparently so am I.”  
  
You don’t answer, instead continuing on in silence. The Alternian justice system is positively draconian in its administration, as evidenced by your current situation, but Redglare’s predicament reeks of something closer to a personal vendetta. Clearly someone up there doesn’t particularly enjoy having their authority questioned, and she’s paying for it. Something is rotten in Space Denmark. You mull that supposition over as the two of you step out into the main hall of the courtblock.  
  
When the ambush comes, you’re not prepared for it all. There is no warning, no subtle cue that you’re about to be attacked. One moment you’re glancing over at Redglare and opening your mouth to apologize for all of this, and the next you’re flat on your back, hurled to the floor by the impact of a massive body. Something cracks in your chest as you’re hit, and your rifle goes flying from your hands.  
  
  
  
 _(It’s an ambush predator you said it waits you said it waited for_ you _)_  
  
  
  
Splinters from the floorboards needle your hands as you struggle for purchase. You can make out a huge hanging muzzle just above you, drooping lower as the beast noses at your face like a curious puppy. The rotten-meat stink of its breath is overwhelming, and you gag as it washes over you like a reeking tide. Still, it doesn’t bite; it just holds you there, pinned by its bulk while you struggle. Your ribs scream in protest with every breath you take.  
  
Your creation opens its gaping maw wide, and there’s a warm dribble of god-knows-what across your face. To your credit, you don’t retch. Instead you turn on your belly, doing your best to ignore the state of your ribcage, and scrabble desperately towards your rifle. Almost casually, a huge paw descends to hold you in place, and a streak of pain runs across your shoulder as a talon slices deep.

  
  
  
 _(It’s playing with you the son of a bitch is_ playing)  
  
  
  
  
You're ready for the end, but it doesn't come. The beast shrieks, lifting its paw from you back to swipe viciously at something off to the side. You hear a gasp, and suddenly it’s off you, you’re free, you’re not immediately about to be devoured, and you drag yourself grimly towards your gun. Nothing has ever felt better in your hands than it does now, and firing off a half-dozen shots is catharsis in its purest form. By the light of the muzzle flash you catch glimpses of Redglare, hand clamped over her teal-soaked side and blade bloodied red. Of the beast, you see nothing but a shattered doorframe and a lashing tail retreating within.  
  
  
  
 _(Fuck.)_  
  
  
  
Once you’re sure it’s really, truly gone, you pick yourself up and stagger over to Redglare. The legislacerator is swaying a little; that can’t be good. You drape her over your uninjured shoulder and guide her over to the wall before awkwardly shuffling the both of you around and sitting her down. “Okay, give me a damage report.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
“My stomach and thigh are hardly in optimal condition,” she says faintly. “I think that might be a problem.”  Bending over is not a good idea right now, so you kneel and try to gently pry her fingers away. She hisses reflexively and keeps her hand in place all the more firmly. You’re not seeing those wounds any time soon, but they’re _bad._ You can tell that much. Redglare is out of commission.  
  
You heft your rifle in your good arm and carefully straighten up. Redglare follows your progress, if only with her eyes. “Where do you think you’re going, Lalonde?”  
  
“Where do you think? I have a mistake to fix.”  
  
“You’re not going anywhere alone, especially not in your condition. My assignment was to supervise your efforts, and the letter of the law demands that I follow through.” She pushes herself halfway upright with her free hand, but her knees buckle and she goes sliding back down with a grunt of pain.  
  
“Look who’s talking. Fuck me gently, you can’t even walk.”  
  
So this is it, then. Your beautiful, valiant, pointless last stand against your own enormous fuck-up. You limp over to the door, favoring your most-likely-broken ribs. The stairway down yawns, black and ominous as the eye of a dead god. Redglare coughs from behind you, and you turn.  “Don’t even try it.”  
  
“The law—“  
  
“The law just got its ass handed to it on a silver platter by something out of a Michael Crichton novel. Stay down.”  
  
You’re rewarded with a strained laugh. “Only for a minute. Then I’m resuming pursuit.”  
  
“Fine, fine.” Something comes to you then, something important. You aren’t going to survive the next few minutes, and it needs to be said. “Neophyte—“  
  
  
She cuts you off. “Latula.”  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
“My name,” she says quietly, “is Latula.”  
  
  
Beneath the zealotry and determination, she's too young for any of this; the whole situation is obscene. But it has to be done. You bite your lip hard enough to draw blood before you try again. “Latula, I need a favor.”

She responds with a dry chuckle; maybe the blood loss is getting to her already. You need to go. You can’t let that happen; she doesn’t deserve it. “Ask. I’ll see if I can follow through.”  
  
You hesitate, and your voice fails you. When you find it again, it’s soft and the least steady you’ve ever heard it. "If they let you live, go find my daughter."  
  
She’s silent then, and you wonder if you’ve asked her to bend her principles too much before she replies. “I’ll do my best.”  
  
You swallow, throat suddenly thick as the gravity of your situation bears down on you. “Thank you.” This is ridiculous, you’re behaving like some idiot teenager in a cut-rate haunted house--  
  
  
No.  
  
  
You’re just afraid.  
  
  
As you lift your foot to take the first step, your partner speaks up again. “Lalonde?”

  
“Yes?”  
  
  
“I won’t say that it’s been a pleasure, but it’s certainly been interesting.”

  
“Same to you, Latula. Same to you.”

  
 

You turn away and descend into the waiting darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I am so terribly sorry that this does not quite fit the prompt. I'm also sorry if it feels rushed; we did this on the spur of the moment after deciding that yes, this was far too cool of a prompt to leave unfilled.
> 
> Regardless, we hope that you enjoyed it.


End file.
